Black Sheep
by Not So Gallant Gallade
Summary: <html><head></head>Swim until you can't see land is a great refrain... but you can't swim in frozen water. Oneshot, dark.</html>


Everywhere he walks, familiarity lurks, ready to pounce on him in the austere, frosty, anything-but-hospitable landscape. The red feathers on his head whack him in the face, blinding him as he moves and shoves them away.

There were things he missed, yes, but they were overshadowed by the phantom that was his past, looming over him every moment, tapping his shoulder every time he tried to forget and whispering 'Hey, remember when you did that, punk?'

Imprudent, was he? Yes. Was it worth it? Seeing as his future was as blank as the white in front of him, no. But hey, he had to live with it now, almost like a doppelganger.

This wasn't low-grade agony either. This was the type of agony to make even tough souls stop and shiver and shut their eyes and howl into the blizzard 'Dear Arceus I've had enough justpleasemakeitgoaway!'

And yet he trudged on, epitomizing the phrase 'the walking dead' like it was his favorite pastime.

He looks to the left, sees the evergreen holding so many recollections, fond or otherwise, needles hanging on for dear life.

Not that they have far to fall; the pine was as dead as a soldier with a fresh lead bullet rooted in his head. The tree displaced snow in all directions, digging its own grave.

Oh, omens. Such fickle messengers.

Suddenly, a face, a black dot in the white void in front of him. Apropos, in a way.

The face's eyes blink, looking away as recognition flashes in its owner's irises and the rest of the body follows the countenance out of the white. Black and red make themselves distinctive on the figure, and he identifies the figure as someone he knows, someone who knows the shame he's endured.

And, at the same time, has no fucking clue the shame he's endured, the anguish and self-torture he's put himself through.

"Long time no see," our pained protagonist says, wondering how anyone could hear that in this snowstorm. Their claws glide against each other, the resulting sound resembling that oh-so- excruciatingly-bitter sound of a sword unsheathing on a man destined to lose a duel, a man who knows when he's lost before it begins, that said sword is going to be synonymous with 'the end.'

This exchange is about as impartial as friends can get for an exchange. No need for niceties when both of them know that there's about to be a storm within a storm.

Question: Have you ever seen the rain on a sunny day?

Better question: Have you ever seen a rainbow after a snowstorm?

He looks back, the perfect monochrome behind him marred by black. Slowly the blizzard consumes it, but it's still there, probably looking at him as he goes and asking 'What happened?'

And not even he knows the answer, not completely.

His march continues, a brave one but without honor, and sure enough the uninhabitable gives way to the inhabited. Not that there was much of a difference and especially not now. Not for anyone in the community and sure as hell not for him.

He sees all the furtive faces, wanting to confirm that yes he's back and I wonder if he knows the shit he's in, but not wanting to get caught doing just that.

Too bad for them.

Every glance he catches has the same three ingredients: disgust, patronization, and empathy. The concoctions are all different, but they're there, and they're all watching, giving him those gazes as if he hadn't already given himself enough of those feelings. Not like he isn't self-aware…

He sees his old group of friends. They scowl at him, shooting crossbows with their expressions. He was obviously booted from the gang a while ago. His other party of buddies, however, shoot him low waves, almost as if they're somewhat ashamed to be his friend.

Up a cliff, hardly visible from yards away, he bounds to the plateau. Another makeshift home stares at him as he passes, and suddenly a figure bursts from it seemingly ready to eviscerate him.

Unless she planned on disemboweling him in a hug, it didn't happen.

"My Arceus, is it really you?" she asks, resting her head against his. Her claws dig into his back ever so slightly, but he ignores it as he strokes her calmly.

"Probably not for long," he sighs, remembering that yes, he loved her and yes, he left her and yes, he's guilty as hell and how can she ever forgive him.

"Don't think like that… I'm sure-"

He cuts her off, not to be mean but just to say "What, that everything will be fine and dandy? You know me. You know _him._"

Two misty, gloomy eyes ice his veins (further) with their gaze. He hated to be this way, but what he hated more was that it was the truth.

"Just… be careful," she pleads, as if any of this is in his control.

With a last squeeze they release each other, and she can only think to stand and watch him hike on to the last place he wants to be.

He's trudged into his father's midst about these things before, too many times to count, almost like a routine. Of course, nothing compares to this trip and its magnitude.

Recalling a line from a song some idiot human was blasting, he sighs.

'It's always cloudy except for when you look into the past'

He's sick of the omens, the little things that all shout at him that this won't end any way but badly, that everything is telling him 'You're fucked, buddy' so apathetically it hurts him even more.

He walks into the cave where his father, the chief, dwells.

The sword unsheathes.

* * *

><p><em>Yeah, this is sorta depressing. Or a lot.<em>

_*yawns* Review and all that stuff._

_Oh, and for the record, the characters described are all Weaviles. In case I was too ambiguous there.  
><em>


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